


Sure of your bodie I will be

by sapphictitious



Category: Thomas the Rhymer (Traditional Ballad)
Genre: Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, F/F, Face-Sitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28491912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphictitious/pseuds/sapphictitious
Summary: And if ye dare to kiss my lips--
Relationships: The Queen of Elfland/Thomas the Rhymer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Sure of your bodie I will be

'True Thomas', she is hailed, when the truth lies fourteen years dead, rotting beneath a hedgerow. No-one yet living knows of the girl-twin, Thomasin, who wears a man's mantle and tarried seven years in Elfland.

She is a spaeman. She is a liar in all but her speech. She will surely be torn in two by the Queen of Elfland's poisoned parting gift.

But until that day her tongue is clever, weaving prophecies which delight and court dread in turn.

"Men call me Thomas Rhymer," she says in truth. That she kissed the lips of the Queen of fair Elfland is not a lie. But it is a sly, creeping, shadowy thing.

Thomasin should have prophesied this: the good folk do not relinquish their conquests so easily. Her lady comes for her again, straddling Thomasin beneath the Eildon tree, and grips her short hair with one hand as if it were a horse's mane.

With the other she lifts her skirts, revealing the dark curls and rosy lips which Thomasin has burned for.

"Kiss me," the Queen of Elfland commands, laughing, and Thomasin surges to her task, kissing the wet, pink, tender skin. Her breasts are sore against their bindings, and soon phantom hands loosen the cloth, squeezing them and rolling her nipples between clawed fingers.

Thomasin licks helplessly, pushing hard against the nub with the flat of her tongue until it aches. An insistent press at her own cunt prompts her to point her tongue-tip and pierce her Queen. She moans when she is filled.

The fingers pinch and scrape. Thomasin writhes at their whim. Her hair is twisted painfully and she whimpers, suckling again and soothsaying pleasure with her restless tongue.

Her nose is jammed against the Queen's soft mound and she breathes in the scent of her as she comes.

The spectral pleasures disappear at once. She moans. Her cunt throbs.

Her lady cups her face, brushing a gloved, tender thumb back and forth over Thomasin's slickened lips. She smiles down at her kindly.

"Do you love me still, my Thomas?"

The obvious truth is sloe-berry bitter in her mouth. Thomasin-the-Liar pretends she hasn't heard, and sucks her Queen's thumb to beg for more, more, _more_ instead.

Her treacherous tongue cannot be stayed forever. But she will tarry for as long as she is able.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ["100 words of eating out elves"](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/463963.html?thread=2777091931#cmt2777091931).


End file.
